


birthday bash

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 07:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13071957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Your birthday was shaping up to a pathetic shit-smear. Bro had bothered to take off work, but in lieu of doing anything with you, he got you a cold, half-eaten ten piece from McDonald’s, a new sword (which was sweet, sure, but you knew he was just gonna use it as a bargaining chip whenever you didn’t want to strife), and a fatherly nod of affection before he flashstepped into the hallway and out of sight.





	birthday bash

**Author's Note:**

> this was a fic i wrote for dave's birthday + bc some of my friends had an itch for brodave. 
> 
> enjoy this wreck

The sequins were falling off of your party hat and sticking into the dirty carpet as you crumbled it between your fingers and rolled it flat between your hands. Your birthday was shaping up to a pathetic shit-smear. Bro had bothered to take off work, but in lieu of doing anything with you, he got you a cold, half-eaten ten piece from McDonald’s, a new sword (which was sweet, _sure_ , but you knew he was just gonna use it as a bargaining chip whenever you didn’t want to strife), and a fatherly nod of affection before he flashstepped into the hallway and out of sight.

You toss the party hat over the back of the couch and nudge your anime shades on the table with one socked foot. Rose’s scarf spilled over the end of the couch to the floor, almost as tall as you, and the best gag gift you’ve probably ever gotten. You are so wearing that. Jade’s box is dumped haphazardly on the futon, and John’s gift is on the couch with you. You’d called him a queer for spending so much money on it, but only because you could feel the heavy pressure of Bro’s eyes or one of the guy’s cameras draping over the backs of your shoulders when he’d handed it to you.

You snag up Ben Stiller’s sunglasses. You play with them in your hands for a second before you knock your Bro’s dumb glasses over with your foot and perch the aviators on your nose. You scratch at the knit of the scarf and tug your legs up onto the couch. The rose-red and deep rust of the scarf was pretty cool-looking, if not a little faggy. Rose probably anticipated that, and while her irony muscles weren’t as bulging as yours, she was packing a couple nice biceps and she obviously had a grasp on your sense of humor. And a lot of other things, too. She could tell that you weren’t having a birthday blast, but Jade and John were smiley enough to distract her out of a psychoanalysis.

At seven o’clock, you can feel a sudden presence. Ten-second rule on the weekends. Bro can always tell when you spot him, and time’s ticking. Your sword is a good foot away, thrown down in front of the flatscreen, and you haven’t broken it in. Three seconds down, you scramble off the couch to go for your sword and manage to pull a complete 180 front your position half-crouched on the floor, bringing up your sword quickly enough that you startle yourself with the clash of metal. Bro has the upper hand here, but the block was better served on your sword than on your forearms.

He doesn’t say anything to him, but he can see how wide your eyes are through your aviators. He disappears, and you barely have him to register the clank of his sword against the ground before he’s behind you with one of his gloved hands on top of yours, steadying the blade of your sword. Your breathing picks up.

“Easy, tiger,” he mumbles closer to your ear than you’d like, trying to sound comforting. It does little to comfort you, but you’re too aware of yourself to jerk away from him. He’d give you more than thirteen birthday spankings if you tried some corny shit like that, “Slow reflexes today. Too much cake?”

You don’t answer him. He squeezes your hand to coax you into dropping your sword, which you do. Compliant and quiet, that’s the key to getting back to your room and clicking your lock for the rest of your night. “You just gon’ sit there and ragdoll on me, kid?” he asks, “I can always go back and spend quality time with Cal, y’know.”

You half-way want to tell him to go and shove his dick in that fucking nutcracker, but insulting Cal is a one-way trip to pound town. Bro’s fists would be departing immediately for Grand Central Davestion, and you don’t feel like busting out a tooth over some fucking ventriloquist’s dumpster-diving horror. Your broken nose is still healing, and you’ve got a rib that doesn’t feel like it’s resting too easy, so it’s the best you can do to make sure Bro stays happy with you.

“I’m fine.”

“Good boy,” he croons, and you fucking hate that, “Saw your glasses. Y’look like a douche.”

“You’re shitting me, right? This shit’s like benching four hundred for my irony,” you tell him, trying your best not to seem nervous. You know Bro can see right through you, though. Guy’s got x-ray vision when it comes to your bullshit and he can see through the layers of your facade like it’s made of mesh. “Can’t you tell some hella bitchin’ memorabilia when you see it, old man?”

“Watch your mouth, smart ass,” he warns you, “I don’t like ‘em. Who gave these things to you? Egbert’s kid?”

“John.”

“He’s cute, huh?” he starts, lowly, and you can tell he’s gonna try and get a rise out of you. It might work, too, ‘fact it’ll probably work on you. John’s a touchy spot recently. You figure Bro’s cut-slash-switched-reversed his cameras around again and through the marvels of his omniscient talents found out about your little issue stained on your bedsheets. “Saw you staring at him, Dave, y’little perv. Tell me what you think about Egbert, why don’t you, li’l man?”

“He’s my best friend, ‘course I was _looking_ at him. Get your mind outta a puppet’s ass for two seconds,” you say, hoping the insult will work to throw him off your lie, but to no avail. His gloved hands picks at the hem of your shirt, his thumb pressing against your hipbone. He swings one of his legs beside you and forces you to sit in front of him like he’s about to braid your hair for the first day of the school. His other hand makes its appearance on your neck, brushing your hair behind your ear, and you shiver. You figure you’re gonna get more than a heated strife tonight. He’s being more abrupt about it than he usually is. His day-to-day tactic is usually appearing next to you on the couch in the middle of an intense game of Tony Hawk Something-Something and waiting for you to notice he wants a little attention or getting into your bedroom late when he gets home from spinning at a club to cap off his night with a bang. If you’re a little sluggish at school on those days, nobody notices.

“My mistake,” he mumbles, but you know he knows you’re lying through your teeth and he ain’t exactly peachy keen on that. Guess he isn’t ready to take it slow, “I thought he was awful cute, though. Daddy’s got him going out the door just waiting to be fucked.”

You are toeing the line of being absolutely indignant on John’s behalf. You know, though, that fighting for his honor is just going to give you a limp tomorrow. You want to be able to go apeshit on Bro and shove him off of you, hold your ground when he tries to put metal to metal in retaliation, but you know you can’t. Bro’s over six feet tall, guy’s got the making of a beer belly but he’s buff as shit, his shoulder width is almost worth two of you. You couldn’t take him down unless you had a pistol or a pipe bomb. You scuff your sock into the carpet. “That ain’t true.”

“No? Well, then I guess I was lookin’ too hard. I ain’t got no preference for fat kids, but,” the hand on your hipbone lays flat over your stomach, and you suck it in out of the instinctive dose of fear, “he’s gotta cute ass.”

This is the game you play with him. Some weeks it’s Lalonde, other times he drones on about your momma which serves to strike a sour nerve, but every time he finds what makes you tick and winds the clock all the way back to noon until you go off. It’s like on the roof, just like swordplay, a delicate situation. You have to defuse the bomb he forces you to swallow before it blows and keep a poker face while doing it.

“He’s a poster boy. ‘Course he’s easy on the eyes,” stay calm, stay chill, detach yourself from Egbert and talk about him like he’s a sidewalk crack to you. “Baker’s son; gotta be real soft and doughy and the like. Once in a blue moon, he brings that sugary shit over, all that artery-clogging sweet stuff. Maybe next time he’ll set out brownies for you and Chris Hansen can ask you to take a seat over there.”

“He must’ve spent a lot on the aviators,” he notes, ignoring your spiel, “You like ‘em?”

“No.”

He hums. His hand slips up your shirt as the banter dips to a lull and your stomach starts to eat itself and you curl your toes anxiously into your stain-ridden carpet. You haven’t misstepped, you’re very particular about how you handle your brother, but he’s still the sensei of the fine art of playing life like a card game and he’s taught you everything you know. There ain’t nothing you can do that he hasn’t premeditated. This trust in him, sometimes, feels like you two are the closest two people in the world. It just so happens that the other half the time Bro wants to get even closer.

You’re pressed up against his chest and his scruff scritches along the back of your neck as he tips up your chin with his hand and holds it there, head high, as you try to steady ragged breathing. He’s got lips on your neck like the two of you are playing a wicked fucked-up game of chicken, and you’re losing by a million. You fall back against him because it’s easier than staying rigid and let him suck hickeys into your neck you’ll have to deal with tomorrow because he doesn’t avoid the marks like he did when you were little.

“Missed you this last week,” he says, “School’s really kicking your ass, huh?"

“I guess,” you murmur. He’s not looking for conversation anymore, and this isn’t a subtle hint you pick up on, but it’s pretty fucking obvious in the way his hand skims the waist of your jeans and his fingers tug at it. He’s telling you to take them off, and so you do, slowly moving your hands so Bro knows you’re not going to try and hit him. You’re fresh out of snark and the energy to fight against him, and doing any of that usually ends with you having more bruises. Bro’s cracked you a new one bad enough to make you bleed sometimes, and you think he’s got some sort of fetish for having you scared of him.

You hate to please the dickbag, but you’re always scared of him.

You make quick work of your jeans, shucks them off and kick your legs to shove them off you completely. Bro’s gloves stay on as he slips his hand into your boxers, and your legs tense up as he grips your cock. Instinctively, your hand clenches and grabs onto his bicep braced behind you for support. “Good boy,” he calls you, gently, and you have to try your best to stay silent. His breath is hot on the side of your neck, lingers just behind your ear. He likes to get you off when he fucks you. It makes it easier to call you a whore like that, ‘cause you’re a whore when you’re aching for it.

With his knee, he nudges your thighs apart further and he twists the palm of his hand to keep you breathless and trick you into making noise for him. You bite your cheek and spread your legs easily, not wanting him to feel the need to beat obedience into you, and his thumb presses against the head of your cock and gets your hips to hiccup into motion, your fingernails digging into his arm. This fuels Bro’s fire to mock you, and his voice startles you from how warm it is against your ear, “We’re a little sensitive, are we?” he mumbles, speeding up the quirk of his hand and you drop your head against his shoulder with a sharp intake of breath, “Don’t say you didn’t miss it, li’l man. Look at you, gaggin’ for it.”

He pulls his glove off his free hand with his teeth, spitting it off to the side and he tilts your head back up from his shoulder. “Sit up,” he orders you, and he presses his thumb against your lower lip as he continues to get you off in the slow fuck of his hand. You concentrate on the uncomfortable noise of your cock squeaking against the leather of his gloves and try not to make any more noise. You know if you open your mouth, you’d absolutely make a noise Bro wouldn’t let you forget. You don’t want him thinking you’re asking for it. You press your teeth together, and Bro squeezes your jaw.

“You have five seconds to open your mouth ‘fore I fuck you dry, kid,” he mumbles to you. That’s some bullshit straight from Rose’s wizard slash, but you know Bro isn’t joking. He’d made well on that threat before and you hadn’t ever cried for him to stop louder. He didn’t actually fuck you like that, your begging had gotten him to concede, and you didn’t really think he’d go through with it again. But you didn’t want to test him.

You part your lips and Bro pushes his thumb into your mouth and he jerks your cock hard enough to get you to whimper through his fingers. You do your best to suck his fingers even though he’s not making it easy on you from how much he’s running them against your teeth and your cheeks. Spit dribbles from the corners of your mouth and you choke on his fingers when he presses down on the head of your cock and you moan.

Bro laughs at you low under his breath. He shoves his fingers farther back in your throat to tip your head up uncomfortably, and his grip on you chin is slick with your saliva.”Tease,” he calls you, and you don’t mean to get him off but you must look pathetic and whorish and you’re still sucking on his fingers like you’re a front-page pornstar taking on the dick of a lifetime.

His hand’s out of your boxers and he pushed the waistband down past your thighs. Your hand falls off his arm. He tips your face to the side when he takes his fingers out of your mouth, and before you have the mind to be indignant, he uses his free hand to knot in your hair and pulls your head back to give you a sloppy kiss. You fucking _hate_ when he kisses you. It’s his ultimate power play, and it makes you feel uneasy on the inside.

He tugs you back by your hair and you take several deep breaths. His wet hand slips down between your legs and your knees lock up but you don’t press your thighs back together. His middle finger presses against you and you seize up, digging your nails back into his arm and steadying the heel of your foot in the carpet. “Bro,” you whisper, hurriedly, very quiet. You sound frail and you fucking hate it.

“I gotcha, kiddo,” he says, and he presses his finger inside of you, “You’re doing so good for me, baby. You’re my kid, you’re my baby, you’re alright, li’l man.”

You don’t want him to say that to you. You shake your head against him, but he doesn’t care to listen or to stop, and he presses his pointer finger inside of you alongside the one. He uses his elbow to knock your legs farther apart, casually fucking his fingers in and out of you once he’s done keeping up with his initial facade of being gentle. He’s never gentle, not really, and it’s the sort of thing you wish he could be in the lowest, grossest part of yourself. Bro taking it slow with you without hands on your throat or raunchy bullshittery whispered into your ear is the kind of thing you hate yourself for thinking about.

You whimper and your toes curl and your fingers dig into Bro’s skin. You spread your legs farther of your own free fucking will and you don’t want to like it, but here you are, and you whisper to your brother under your breath and he is calling you such a slut for him and you fucking _are_ and you _hate_ it but you keep asking him for more.

When he pulls his fingers out of you, you’re running your tongue under your teeth to distract yourself. Bro pushes you up on his lap so that there’s a moderate space between your back and his chest and you hear the clink and sliding off his belt and the zip of his fly. You’re hunched over in front of him on the carpet and you twiddle your thumbs and wait. He loops one of his arms under yours and hoists you back to him, his free hand gripping the underside of your opposite thigh to position it, and he grunts as he gets you how he wants to. You hold yourself up for him by gripping onto one of his shoulders from behind awkwardly, and your bent knee shakes a little bit as you wait on him.

He spits into his hand and you’re seriously going to have to remember your wicked idea of always having lube on your person for the future. You guess you’re lucky Bro cares, so to speak, enough to take two seconds to get his dick wet without making you choke on it for a hot minute. He grips his dick by the base, his hold under your arm tightens up and he mumbles something about your fatass before he drops his support entirely. You steady yourself with his shoulder and one leg, since it’s your job to not get hurt, and you swallow and hold a deep breath as Bro’s meek support on your hip pulls you down onto his lap.

Your breath gets caught in your throat. It ain’t peaches and cream to you yet, you doubt it’ll ever be, ‘cause this shit fucking hurts something sour. The head’s the worst part, and Bro isn’t comforting you anymore. His fingers hold tight on your side and it still feels like you’re going to split in two when the head pushes into you, and it burns to the point that you can’t even give him some “it’s too big” hentai heroine knee-slapper just for kicks even though it would probably get his rocks off. You’re not exactly coherent when you sink onto his cock, and your baited breath doesn’t make it easy to speak.

“Fuck, kid,” he groans, his gloved hand creeping onto your thigh and pulling you flush against him. His stubble scrapes along your shoulder when he bites onto your neck, holding onto you tight enough to bruise, “Lookit you, champ. Atta-fucking-boy.”

You don’t have anything to say in response except fall back against him. You still wish he’d stop calling you champ, that’s the kinda shit John’s dad calls him. You move your hips a little and Bro sort-of rocks into you and you make this quiet whimpering noise despite yourself. Bro is going to give himself a minute. He always does. You’re not quite sure if he does that to get inside your head, or if he’s getting old, but you know that the minute where he does nothing is the worst part of the ordeal. So you’ve gotta hold down the power button on this one. You roll your hips against him, suck in a breath, and in a voice that you do your best to control, you say, “Fuck me.”

Bro chuckles, but his slack grip tightens on you. You guess he knows the game you’re playing at. He lifts you up and pushes against you when he pulls you back down onto his cock and your chest burns. “Bro,” you say, and it’s the way you say it that makes you hate it just a little bit more. It’s needy and desperate and Bro eats that shit up like a fat kid found the last twinkie. “Please.”

By some miracle, he does, and he doesn’t have a snide comment about it. He lifts your hips and drops you down and sets a steady pace fucking up into you. His fingernails dig into your thighs and he’s awful preoccupied with biting marks into your shoulder and you’re spread out across him like some back-alley whore and even though you try your best not to say anything you’re babbling something unintelligent under your breath and punctuating it with moans as his hips snap up into you.

“Fucking listen to you, baby,” he says and you squeeze your eyes shut. Shame’s gonna fuck you harder than Bro ever could after this whole thing, thinking back to how pathetic you sound now. His hand only gets a tighter grip on the junction of your thigh, his skin slapping yours and the squeal of his glove against you. If you didn’t look like a whore before, you’re bouncing on his lap with the only thing keeping your begging from busting out being your pride. It’s not entirely your fault if you whisper for him to go harder or faster through the cracks of your dignity. “You sound so good, so fuckin’ good for me, kid,” he tells you, and you don’t want to be good for him at all, yet here you are.

He angles himself at an upstroke and fucking slams into you, and you swear you almost draw blood from his arm. Your voice cracks through your moan as you mindlessly babble for him to _go_ because it feels _good_ before you can get a handle on yourself. The deed’s done, though, and your back’s breaking with Bro’s movements. You’ll eat yourself alive for it later, but you feel like you need him now, and you can deal with your unearthly guilt later. He tells you a couple more things, says you’re so good at taking his dick, and you whine when he says this and wiggle your hips because you want more than how hard he’s already fucking you. Bro calls you greedy, and he pulls you down hard.

Part of you feels like crying, and you think you do actually start crying, which is something you haven’t figured out why you do during sex. You let yourself sob for him to fuck you harder, shoving down your guilty conscience and trying not to choke too hard on your swallowed pride. Your voice is thin and you back is rigid, arched away from Bro. You’re bleeding somewhere on your shoulder, but you don’t care, you’re all but begging for Bro to tear you in half. A little blood isn’t your biggest concern, you’ve certainly had worse bites.

“God, scream for me,” he groans into the crook of your neck, and _fuck_ do you ever when he thrusts up into you. Bro lets go of your hip and that leaves you to match pace largely by yourself, which was frustrating since it was easier when Bro man-handled you, but his hand repurposes itself by wrapping back around your dick and you make an audible gasp when he makes contact. You can tell when Bro gets close ‘cause his motions get real erratic and hiccupy.

“Bro,” you whisper since it’s basically the only thing you’re capable of saying, and that’s enough to get him to let you fuck up into his hand and then back down onto his dick between heavy pants.

“Love you, kid,” he offers you softly, and you know he’s just saying it to say it, but with a quiet start, you cum all over his hand.

It leaves your stomach feelings kind of hollow and your back starts hurting from how much you were straining yourself, and you whimper when Bro bites down onto your shoulder and, yeah, okay, maybe if you start carrying lube around in the future you should carry a condom too because this is going to make your post-sex shower ten times more embarrassing on yourself.

He pulls you out of his lap and plops you on your ass so he can tuck himself back into his jeans and pick up his belt and stray glove from the ground. You stare at the ground as he grabs his sword, and you feel his hand tussle your hair.

You want to vomit. Your fingers grapple for your jeans on the ground, and you sniffle.

“Happy birthday, li’l man,” he tells you, and then he’s gone. 


End file.
